


A Study in Subtlety

by sherlocked11



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 21:40:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked11/pseuds/sherlocked11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can't sleep, so he bothers John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Subtlety

**Author's Note:**

> Another work by the brilliant Alia and I! Hope you enjoy it!

“PING!”

John Watson lurched upright in his bed, sheets tangled around his legs and skin covered in a sheen of sweat. Nightmares again. Always with the damn nightmares, why couldn’t they just go away, stop, just stop…

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands wearily, sighing brokenly. I’m going to go mad, one of these nights. At least he’d woken up before it had gotten too bad.

Speaking of, what had woken him, again? It had binged… Ah, the phone.

Ohhhh. The phone.

He covered his face with one hand and fell back into his pillows with a peevish groan. It was probably Sherlock, awake and antsy. If John hadn’t seen the detective passed out on the floor after solving a big case, he would seriously doubt that Sherlock ever slept. Ever.

John lay there motionless for a few moments before finally rolling over and picking up the phone. Bloody hell, was it really 2:00 AM?! Christ…

It was a message from Sherlock.

“JOHN. -SH”

John narrowed his already sleep-bleary eyes.

“WHAT?” he texted back.

The reply came almost instantaneously.

“JOHN. -SH”

“Sherlock, what can you possibly want?! It’s 2 in the morning for chrissake!”

“I can’t reach my computer. -SH”

The doctor stared disbelievingly at the text. Sherlock… Texted him in the middle of the night… For the bloody computer?!

“Are you bloody serious? It’s two feet away from you, right on the table. I’m upstairs. In my bed. ASLEEP.”

“You’re not asleep, you’re texting me. My computer, John. -SH”

John pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed through his teeth. No real point in arguing, now that he was awake. If John didn’t go down and do what Sherlock wanted the bloody genius would probably end up screeching on his violin all night.

After a minute of struggling with his impossibly knotted sheets, John staggered upright and padded stiffly down the stairs, favoring his bad knee. He entered the dimly lit main room to see Sherlock sprawled over the length the couch, phone screen glowing brightly between the fingers of his folded hands.

The man looked positively rumpled. His dressing gown was thrown on haphazardly over the previous day’s shirt and trousers, and his normally sleek curls were wildly disheveled over his forehead. His shirt was in the wildest disarray; the collar hung open a button or two more than usual, and the bottom had untucked itself from his trousers and started to twist and ruck up about his waist. The smooth pale skin underneath stood out sharply against the dark purple shirt, and John couldn’t help but notice it.

John averted his gaze before he could stare, but he was already feeling the tips of his ears start to warm. Sherlock didn’t notice his flat-mate’s discomfort, thankfully. His eyes were closed, and he would have appeared asleep except for the agitated tapping of bare feet against couch leather.

The laptop was, as predicted, sitting on the table not two feet away from the couch. John contemplated dropping the damn thing right onto Sherlock’s chest as he picked it up, but by then Sherlock had already turned his hands up to receive the computer, eyelids still shut. John placed it not-so-very gently into Sherlock’s grasp and drew back a pace.

“There, Sherlock. You have your computer now. You happy?”

Sherlock, finally opening his silver-green eyes, didn’t so much as glance at John as he lifted the lid of the computer, peered at the bottom corner of the screen briefly, and shut it again.

“Yes, John. Thank you.” Sherlock stretched his arm out and set the laptop back in its place on the table.

John stared at him, flabbergasted.

“That was it?”

“I needed to know the time.”

“You wanted to know the time?” John threw his head back and sighed through his teeth, hands akimbo. “You wanted to know the time. Couldn’t you have just LOOKED AT THE BLOODY MOBILE IN YOUR HAND?!”

John retreated into the kitchen before Sherlock could answer, muttering angrily as he braved the experiment-cluttered cabinets to fish a out a dubious-looking packet of tea. He looked at it, and tossed it in the bin. Bloody Sherlock with his bloody experiments ruining the bloody tea.

“My mobile doesn’t tell me the seconds,” Sherlock called from the couch. “What else was I supposed to do?”

John paced back into the living room and sat in his chair exasperatedly. “Of course, how could I have been so dense?” he said sarcastically.

Sherlock raised his phone to his eye-level and started fiddling with it. “I agree, most disappointing. Honestly, John.” He threw a sidelong glance at his colleague over the screen.

“Oh, well, my apologies, Sherlock. Sorry to have offended your sensibilities there,” John deadpanned.

His partner shot another glance over, eyebrow raised. “It’s quite alright. Off you go then. Back to bed.” More fiddling with his phone.

“Oh, stop it with the look, will you?”

“What look?”

“That look!”

“What look, John?! I can hardly tell what look you’re talking about seeing as it’s MY face we’re talking about.”

“You know the one, the incredulous ‘I-just-read-you-like-a-book-so-I’m-going-to-raise-my- eyebrow-to-let-you-know’ look.”

Sherlock looked away, feigning disinterest. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean.” Another glance, no raised eyebrows. “Haven’t you got a bed to go back up to?”

I give up. There was no understanding him, there really wasn’t, might as well just accept it.

“Fine, if you don’t want me down here,” John said as he carefully stood up from his chair, lips pressed into a line of annoyance, “I’ll go back and attempt to fall asleep. Again.”

Sherlock was staring at the ceiling, fingers steepled together elegantly under his chin, phone forgotten on the floor. “Mmm,” he hummed noncommittally, his feet resuming their earlier fidgeting.

Taking this as his dismissal, John headed up the stairs. “Fine. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock said nothing.

When John reached his bedroom, he walked straight to his bed and flopped down. He didn’t bother to close the door, or even fix his bunched up bedspread. No point to it, he definitely couldn’t sleep now. Not now that he knew Sherlock was down there, annoying Sherlock, amazing Sherlock, awake and aware and staring at the ceiling that was Watson’s floor, staring right up at him with those eyes the color of a rainy-day Thames and laying right there in a glorious disarray of dark fabric and smooth skin and — 

“PING!”

It was Sherlock.

“John. -SH”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“BORED. -SH”

“Fine, whatever, Sherlock. Do whatever you want.”

John thought about it for another moment, then quickly sent another text.

“Put the gun down. You’re going to wake Mrs. Hudson up.”

“Why on earth would you think I’d have a gun, John? -SH”

The sound of a gunshot cracked through the house just as John finished reading the last text, startling him. He scrambled upright and ran down the stairs, ignoring his knee’s complaints at being treated so harshly. Sherlock was still laying on the couch, arm extended and gun aimed at the far wall. There was a hole in the wallpaper right above where the skull was sitting, which looked oddly smug about its close call.

John quickly snatched the weapon from Sherlock’s grip and slid the clip out, quickly counting the bullets left. Three. Wonderful.

“I knew, Sherlock,” John muttered through gritted teeth as he deftly disassembled the gun and dropped the pieces to the floor, “because that’s what you DO when you start to get bored.” John pocketed the bullets; Sherlock probably had more around somewhere, but there was no need to make it easy for him. “Now I won’t be sleeping at all tonight, thank you very much.”

Sherlock scoffed and waved dismissively at John. “The skull deserved it.”

John nearly started yelling at him again, but restrained himself carefully. It was a miracle Mrs. Hudson wasn’t already up here complaining about the noise, and John didn’t want to wake her if by some small chance she was still asleep after all that.

He cleared his throat and looked at the floor, still vexed but determined to not let it get to him. “I”m sure. Well, since you’re bored, what do you want to do? Maybe play Cluedo or something?”

Sherlock grimaced at him. “You know I don’t play Cluedo. It doesn’t work.”

“I know, I know.” John walked over to inspect the newest perforation in the wall. Nice aim. “Just trying to find something to distract you with, is all.”

Sherlock made a face at John’s back, and started squirming on the couch annoyedly. “I’m BORED. So very, very bored, John. BORED!”

Turning away from the wall, John was surprised to find Sherlock upside-down on the couch, head hanging from the seat and knees folded over the backrest. His dressing gown pooled on the ground and his shirt had managed to scrunch itself up even more, the whole of Sherlock’s skinny stomach on display.

John, startled, couldn’t help but giggle at his flat-mate’s ridiculousness. “Sherlock, what are you doing?”

Sherlock craned his neck to glare at John. “You have it easy, you know. You and your tiny little brains, so warm and fuzzy and insular. I need input, John!”

John was desperately trying to keep his keep his grin under control. “Then phone Lestrade or something, get your hands on a cold case file, keep you busy. I just…” He giggled again, rubbing his nose. “I just can’t take you seriously like that, sorry.”

Apparently Sherlock had had enough of that. He flailed awkwardly off the sofa into a standing position and stalked into his bedroom, his lips pressed into a thin line. The door slammed behind him.

John winced a little, and padded up to Sherlock’s door. “Oh come on Sherlock, don’t be a poor sport. You know I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

There was no reply, but John could practically feel Sherlock’s sulky expression seeping through the door.

“… Would you like some jam and toast, then?”

“What is it with you and jam?” Sherlock grumped.

“Might perk you up a bit, is all.”

John could hear Sherlock’s huge sigh, and imagined he was rolling his eyes.

“Fine. If it would make you feel better to feed me jam and toast, I will endure it,” Sherlock acquiesced.

Sherlock’s tone made John smile knowingly. “I’ll be right back.”

John whistled quietly as he set the bread in the toaster and dug the jam out of the fridge, careful to avoid the severed foot that lay quietly on the shelf. He didn’t know quite what it was for, but knowing Sherlock there was probably a good reason not to disturb it.

By the time John came back, the door was open and Sherlock was sitting on the edge of his bed. He had picked up his violin and started to pluck idly at the strings. There was no tune, but it wasn’t horribly discordant either.

“Why don’t you try composing something again, Sherlock?” John handed Sherlock his plate of toast, who took it with a bored look. As John sat besides him he was relieved and slightly disappointed to see that Holmes’ shirt had fallen back to cover his stomach.

“Hmmm,” was all Sherlock said as he took a small bite.

“Ooookay… Toast any good?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Hmph.”

“What are so huffy about now?” Really, there’s no understanding him.

Sherlock looked over at John, his gaze analytical. John knew the look. It was his patented Sherlock Scan, picking up bits of information and condensing it into one of his unnervingly brilliant deductions. Sherlock had read something on John, and was displeased by what he found.

“Nightmares again, John?”

John licked his lips and turned his face away. Of course Sherlock would have noticed.

“How did you know?”

“Your pyjamas are more mussed than usual. Normally you don’t turn when you sleep, you lie flat on your back, a soldier’s habit, but your shirt’s all rumpled on the front and the trunk of your trousers are twisted to the side. You were shifting in your bed, which I could hear earlier also, something you only do when you’re not sleeping well. You could have been feeling off, but your leg is bothering you more than usual, so your sleep troubles are psychological, not physical. You were having nightmares.”

John shouldn’t have been surprised that Sherlock had put that together, but then again, the man never failed to impress him. “Amazing. That is… incredible.”

Sherlock plucked a sharp chord on his violin strings. “Hmm, hardly. Besides, what’s the point in identifying the problem if you can’t even solve it…” Sherlock looked annoyed, and took an alarmingly large bite out of his toast.

John was puzzled. What was he talking about, solving the problem? Is he talking about my nightmares? How on Earth could that be Sherlock’s problem…

“What do you mean, Sherlock? What problem?”

Sherlock looked at him over his bulging cheeks.

“After you’ve finished chewing that, of course.”

Sherlock gave him a flat look, taking his time with the mouthful of toast before speaking.

“Problem, John. Your problem. Our problem. Those night terrors of yours are distracting you. You’re always upset afterwards, and you’re harder to talk to. I can’t have a distracted partner, John, not if I don’t want to start nattering at the Skull in public again. Besides, that leg of yours isn’t going to get any better if it keeps bothering you the morning after, and I need you to be in running condition at a moment’s notice. It’s part of the job, you know that.”

John could feel his cheeks heat up a bit. He hadn’t realized that his nightmares had had so much of a noticeable effect on him.

“Sherlock, you know I can’t really do anything about them, the nightmares. I can’t turn them on and off like a tap, and my limp’s not going to magically disappear either.”

A sharp riff sounded off the strings of Sherlock’s violin. “And therein lies the problem! You obviously don’t have a solution, and I don’t either. Some bloody genius I am. The Great Sherlock Holmes, can’t even get rid of a few nightmares.” He sounded frustrated with himself.

John’s cheeks warmed some more. “Well, you know, that’s not exactly true. There is, eh, something that helps.”

Sherlock looked at him interestedly, both eyebrows raised. “Really?”

“They’ve been less frequent now. Since, you know, we began working together.” John cleared his throat, a wave of emotion starting to break through. “And they’re not… Not as scary anymore. I think it’s because…” Here John’s voice almost broke. “Because I’m not alone.”

Sherlock seemed stunned speechless for a moment, puzzlement forming in his expression. “Interesting,” he breathed. Suddenly he leaned towards John, bringing his face closer in. John froze. What was Sherlock doing?

Ah. Another Sherlock Scan. He’s analyzing my reaction.

After a long, long minute, Sherlock drew back, looking enormously pleased. “So that’s it. Of course, why didn’t I see it before…” he breathed.

“What…” John had to clear his throat again. His cheeks were bright red, he could tell. “What was that about? What’s it?”

“Don’t be so coy, John.” Sherlock steepled his fingertips together again in front of his lips. He had a smug grin on, and he examined John’s face. “You know EXACTLY what I’m talking about.”

John couldn’t hold his gaze, and looked the floor. “I’m sure I don’t, Sherlock. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

“Your pupils dilated when I leaned in, and your nostrils flared slightly. Your face has gone red, and your pulse appears to have sped up alarmingly. You couldn’t help glancing at me, specifically my torso, earlier in the living room, which I almost missed. Add that to your comments just now and… Well, you’re clever enough to put it together.”

John drew away slightly, chagrined. He knew now. Sherlock knew, knew how he felt, what he’d been feeling, the secret was out…

He tried for levity, but the break in his voice betrayed him. “I’m surprised that it took you this long, really.”

Sherlock gave small laugh, and John was startle to see him hang his head for a moment, as if abashed…Sherlock, abashed?

“I’m a sociopath, John.” Sherlock ran his hands through his dark shock of hair. “You should be amazed I notice feelings at all.”

John gave him a wry smile, defeat dragging wearily at his eyes. “I’m always amazed by you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock leaned in again, catching John’s uncertain gaze with his own. He looked almost determined now, but also strangely vulnerable. “Lucky for you, my dear Watson, I know EXACTLY how you feel.”

John’s mind juddered to a halt. “Y-you do?” he managed to stutter. What was Sherlock saying? Why would he say that? He doesn’t mean… No, he couldn’t mean that. He’s just showing off again, being typical mind-reader Sherlock. That’s it. He wasn’t… He couldn’t… Impossible.

The tall sociopath’s small grin was intense. “Yes, I do, John.”

Oh. Right. John cleared his throat again and rubbed his forehead, suddenly so very tired. “Right, of course. The dilated pupils and heart rate and all that, yeah.”

Sherlock’s smile disappeared, and hurt flashed briefly through his expression. “Is that what you think?”

The ex-soldier couldn’t bring his voice up above a whisper. “At least now you know.”

Sherlock sat up slowly, back straightening with determination. His voice was stronger now, resolute. “Perhaps I need to be less subtle.”

He grabbed John’s shoulders and brought him up from his slouch, turning him so that they were face to face. John’s eyes widened in surprise, but had no time to react before Sherlock grabbed his hands.

“You are my rock, John. I love you. I have always loved you.”

It was John’s turn to be stunned into silence. Sherlock… loved him? Sherlock loved him! Sherlock loved HIM!

A huge smile split John’s face, and he couldn’t help but laugh in sheer joy. His eyes started to tear up, but he didn’t care. Sherlock loved him.

“I love you too.”

Sherlock’s answering grin was dazzling, and he pulled John into a tight embrace, face pressed against his partner’s sandy spikes of hair. John hugged back as hard as he dared. He seriously doubted the nightmares would ever come back, not while he had his Sherlock in his arms.

“You’ve saved me again, Sherlock.”

“No,” the sociopath murmured, baritone voice vibrating through his chest and into John. “You’ve saved me.”

Their embrace lasted for what seemed a blissful eternity before John broke the silence.

 

“Talk about less subtle.”


End file.
